I’ve Got Some Questions About Prayer
by Loren Seibold | 20 June 2024 |
I was a young teen when Glenn Coon came to the North Dakota Camp Meeting to present his famous (among us Adventists) program, “The ABC’s of Prayer.”
For those of you who don’t remember—or never knew—Glenn Coon’s theology of prayer was that you Ask God for something, work up some Belief that God will answer, and then Claim your answer. ABC. All you need is a Bible promise—and there are plenty of them—and if you employ your promise properly, with enough faith in your heart, then God will be compelled to give you what you want. One of his books was literally a sort of magic spell book: it listed common desires, Bible promises, and a prayer for how you put that promise to work.
It took me years to get over the notion that prayer was meant to get God to fix things in my world. My personal requiem for that kind of prayer was when all the prayers for my dear father and mother didn’t save them when they both got cancer in their mid-50s.
This, it seems to me now, is baby praying. “Dear Jesus, keep Mommy and Daddy safe and help my little sister to feel better and help me to be a good boy.”
Baby praying
Some of my friends didn’t ever get over baby praying. Years ago I had a conference president and his wife who prayed for God to fix everything for them. Then they’d go around the conference telling miracle stories. (They have written about my lack of faith during the time I knew them, so I don’t mind telling folks how their theology looked from my point of view.)
Some of them were a bit silly. She ran out of female sanitary pads and her husband was away with the car, and that very day a sample package came in the mail. Miracle! She told this story to a workers’ meeting of (back then) all male pastors.
So, um, yeah. Praise Jesus.
But then, everything that happened to these people was a miracle. When she went in for an examination of some possible growths in her body and the physician found there was nothing significant there, it wasn’t just, “Oh good. Glad it wasn’t serious after all.” It was instead, “She was possibly riddled with cancer, and God took it all away and the doctor was astonished and called it a miracle.” When they needed a house, the perfect house became available and the realtor had never seen such a good price and it was an amazing answer to prayer.
(An old cynic I used to know would say, “You can’t beat a praying man.” Perhaps this is what he had in mind.)
What, I always wondered, did people in churches think when they told their miracle stories? Did any of them wonder why their daughter wasn’t healed of cancer? Or why they couldn’t afford the perfect house? Was it because he was the conference president, and God was doing them special favors? Or did people just think, “Apparently prayer works better than I thought to get what I need. I just need to try harder”?
It certainly worked for them, so who am I to say?
I remember telling them that I had just lost my parents to cancer, both too young, in the space of one year, and despite many prayers. I also remember that their response was a bit tepid. I suspect it was because my family’s experience contradicted their faith story, and it was harshing their mellow.
Needs and gratitude
As the years have passed, I pray less—or at least less formally. I don’t kneel by my bed and give God a list of things to get done.
I don’t pray for myself much. God knows both my needs and my faults. I no longer feel the necessity of enumerating my desires—nor, for that matter, my problems and sins, like talking to a priest in a confessional booth.
Nor do I pray for my own health and wealth. If it’s my time to die, it’s my time to die. God has blessed me with sufficient means, and I’m grateful, but I don’t need more. God has also blessed me with some common sense, so I try to make good choices in both areas of life.
As for gratitude, I find that sometimes “thank you, Lord” prayers can be rather obnoxious. “Thank you God, for giving me this nice big house and this new car and wonderful wife and such astonishingly good health.” It sounds more like bragging than praying, which God doesn’t need to hear. There’s a prayer in the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) that I like, because it strikes just the right tone:
“Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all Thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
That’s enough. Make me grateful, more empathetic, and unselfish.
Another prayer in the BCP goes, “Bless, O Lord, Thy gifts to our use and us to Thy service; for Christ’s sake. Amen.” Again, to the point: thanks for letting me use what I have, but also teach me to serve God with it. That is, to me, about as good (and succinct) a prayer as one needs.
When others ask me to pray for them, I do—though not necessarily for what they ask. I do want your cancer to be healed, but after so many experiences as a pastor, I would prefer to pray for your comfort and peace of mind. If God wants to heal you, God will heal you—presumably with some medical help.
I struggle to say, “Let Thy will be done,” because I don’t know if it’s God’s will that this person has cancer, or lives or dies with it. I find the concept hard to square with a loving God.
But perhaps I’m wrong about this.
Comfort and praise
I recently talked to a high school acquaintance whose 40ish daughter died of breast cancer, leaving a young family behind. What to say? I don’t understand why such things happen. I refuse to either blame God or lecture God on the matter.
But when it comes to grief, of course, I pray for her family! And I tell her I am praying! I am more willing to pray for her comfort and peace than I am for my own.
The Psalmists devoted long passages to praising God. I’m not saying I’m right, but I struggle with that: why does God need me to build up God’s ego?
Nor do I want to fall into the trap of my acquaintances, referenced above, who praise God for all God has done for them. I don’t like prayers that sound self-centered, like I’m the middle of God’s world, or that my adoration is so important to God.
Nor do I feel the need to explain how every life event is an answer to prayer, or every misfortune is some kind of lesson. Some things just happen.
As for praying for the missionaries and colporteurs and presidents and the people in Gaza: again, do I need to encourage God to take care of things? Clearly, God isn’t taking care of the people in Gaza, but I don’t think it’s God’s fault, and I’m not sure what to suggest God do about it that God hasn’t thought of already.
I used to not like the words “bless” and “blessing,” but I’m getting more amenable to them, precisely because of their inexactness. I don’t know what needs to be done for you, but I pray God will bless you, whatever that means, and at least it brings you to my mind—and maybe makes me think of the blessings I have that I can use on your behalf in God’s service.
Prayers I hate
What I wrote above is about how I pray, or don’t. Mostly, I don’t criticize the prayers of others even if I don’t care for them.
But there are two kinds of prayer that I admit I actively dislike. A lot.
First, the prayers in church meetings that have no other purpose but to punctuate them. The opening prayer for the church board (especially when you know it’s a church board that will likely descend into conflict, and prove the prayers worthless) and the closing prayer that means nothing except “I’m so glad this meeting is over and we can go home!” I particularly dislike the way General Conference meetings stick extemporaneous, clichéd prayers in between every item, before every vote, after every vote, at the beginning and end of every report. It begins to feel sacrilegious—like they’re making light of prayer, not taking it seriously anymore. This is the worst kind of prayer.
Except for this kind: when you plan to rip someone apart with criticism, or tell them what a failure they’ve been, or fire them, don’t start by saying, “Can we have a word of prayer before we talk?” Don’t you dare. Don’t put God’s stamp on your ugliness. It’s like praying with your mistress that God will forgive what you’re about to do in bed together.
I think we can do with fewer but better prayers. Prayers that are to the point, that mean something, that have a purpose. If my prayers make me a genuinely better person, perhaps I’m on the right track. If I pray and pray and pray but I’m the same jerk I’ve always been, then my prayers actually defame God’s name—and there’s a commandment about that very thing.
How about you? How do you pray? Do you relate to my concerns, or see prayer differently?
Loren Seibold is the Executive Editor of Adventist Today.
